Dancing Shadows and Twisted Reflections
by Tahimikamaxtli
Summary: The Shadow Isles: a desolate place full of wretched souls bound to this world in an unholy half-life. Their lore is shrouded in mystery and shadows, but there are always those who cut through the veil. Light and shadow alike, armed with burning silver and radiant light. But there is something sinister stirring in Valoran as much as on the Isles...
1. Chapter 1

**Dancing Shadows and Twisted Reflections**

The Pursuer and the Atoner:

His guns blaze with the shining radiance of the heavens themselves.

Her silver arrows burn with the cold fire of justice itself.

He seeks to find again the one true light that he cannot have – his one light that he lost forever.

She seeks to banish the neverending darkness that follows her – the one that stole everything from her.

He sends the wretched souls languishing in an unholy life into the bright oblivion beyond.

She sends the twisted souls that walk free into the endless fires that await the cruel and wicked.

He wields the light and walks with the darkness in his heart.

She wields the shadow and carries the brilliance in her soul.

He atones eternally for the one he could not save... and pursues relentlessly the one who took her from him.

She pursues relentlessly the cruel shadows in the darkness... and atones eternally for the ones she could not stop.

He is the atoner and she is the pursuer.

She is the atoner and he is the pursuer.

Light and shadow alike.

A pair of twisting reflections with their shadows dancing in the night.


	2. Chapter 2

The Purifier:

Lucian walked carefully through the wreckage with his twin guns held aloft. They were humming with radiant energy that shone a brilliant white in the darkness and left a faint trail of ethereal vapor in the night. His own bright eyes flicked quickly from side to side, taking in everything around him and not missing a single detail of the destruction.

He was surrounded by destroyed buildings, their remains jutting out of the dirt like broken bones. Many had been built from a dark stone, and the bricks were scattered all across the ground. The smell of death hung heavy in the air – it smelled of rotting flesh and spilt blood and fear. The remains surrounded him for a good distance all around and it was clear that whatever had stood here before had been a good-sized town.

From what he had learned, the remains of the town he was standing in used to be called Wyverndale. It was – or perhaps more fittingly, _had_ been – a town on the very outskirts of Noxian territory that had been notorious for its apparent involvement in the black magics. Rumors had abounded for many years that there were unimaginably powerful dark sorcerers in Wyverndale who plotted dark things safe from the prying eyes and reaching influence of the Noxian High Command. Here, they were safe to practice their magics while still under the protection of the Noxian banner, but far away enough from others to remain relatively undisturbed.

A cynical sneer lifted a corner of his mouth as he stepped over a bone that was sunken in the dirt. Lucian was no doctor, but he thought it might have been an arm bone. Or maybe a femur.

_Some dark sorcerers __**they**__ were, _he thought darkly to himself with a quiet snort. He tapped his foot roughly against a grinning skull that was partly buried next to the bone. Its teeth clattered as it fell over and rolled away across the dirt. It had been almost three weeks since he had gotten the report from his source that there had been a sudden and unexpected increase in magical activity in Wyverndale but only one week since he had heard about the Blackwyrm.

Blackwyrms were vile creatures that were summoned by sorcerers and the like from dark places that even _they_ did not hasten or pretend to know. They were relentless and ravenous and could be killed by very few things. They started out only about the size of a snake when they were first summoned but they grew with every little thing they ate. If left unchecked, Blackwyrms would eat anything in sight – living or not – until they grew to such a size that they had to be dealt with quickly or they would kill everything in their quest to sate hunger. They were used by sorcerers in many rituals, but it was clear that this particular Blackwyrm had grown far out of control.

He could see the tell-tale signs of Blackwyrm destruction in the wreckage of the town: large bite marks in the broken remains of homes and deep holes in the ground where the Blackwyrm had burrowed. Blackwyrms could not digest bones of any kind, and he saw his fair share of _those_ as he walked through the town. He doubted that there were any survivors in the entire town. Blackwyrms could eradicate an entire village in a handful of hours and they would hunt down any living thing in range.

The reports from his source had stopped coming a few days before and he was grimly certain that he had lost yet _another_ good source. He had planned his trip to Wyverndale the day after the reports had stopped coming for fear of this exact thing happening: a engorged and hungry Blackwyrm on the loose would cause much more destruction than what it had already had if not dealt with as quickly as possible. Wyverndale may have somewhat secluded from other Noxian villages and towns, but Blackwyrms could cover long distances swiftly in their search for fresh food. And there were not many things that could stop them.

His guns were one of the few things that _could_ kill a fully-grown Blackwyrm, and he was one of the few humans alive who could do it by themselves. A lifetime ago, he would not have undertaken such a task on his own but he had no choice now. There was no Senna at his side now or covering his back. He knew that he had the option of calling back-up, but he preferred it this way.

He worked alone.

Lucian kicked aside another grinning skull, this time with a little more venom than before. Thinking of his wife never put him in a good mood, and he was _already_ more than irritated; the stupidity of these so-called _dark_ _sorcerers_ was incredible to behold. Who did they think they _were_ that they could somehow harness the evils beyond the world they knew? He had seen enough during his days to know that there was no point in trying to understand the things that crawled out of the abyss; his job was just to kill them and send them back before they took anyone else back with them.

_That_ was the purpose of the Order of the Light. It _had_ been for countless centuries and it would continue to be so long as the Shadow Isles and other unnatural corruption existed on the soils of Valoran.

Wood and bones alike cracked beneath his feet and he had to smile again; in a twisted sort of way, it was funny that the dark sorcerers of Wyverndale had been killed by the very thing they had said they were in control of. A hundred years of pretending to be the most powerful sorcerers on Valoran, and it had all been ruined because someone was stupid enough to let a Blackwyrm on the loose.

He chuckled to himself.

There was a sudden sound behind him and he turned around and shot with both guns without an instant of hesitation. He tumbled quickly, dropping to one knee and facing the direction of the sound with his guns held out. They were smoking and their humming was louder than ever.

He lived by a very simple rule when it came to shooting first: shoot first and then shoot again; if it is dead, then it was probably trying to kill you. If it is not dead yet, shoot it once more anyways because it is probably _going_ to try to kill you. It was a good rule to live by in his line of work and it had saved his life more times than he could count. But as he looked at the sight in front of him, he paused.

His guns were still smoking slightly as he let them fall to his sides. A trail of pale white smoke that looked more like steam traced their progress in the air, lingering like wisps of light for far longer than normal smoke. The humming sound that they made also slowly lowered in pitch and volume until it too finally vanished completely. The brightness went away bit by bit until the guns he held looked like nothing more than silhouettes made of marble.

The massive Blackwyrm rose before him, easily more than 30 feet in length and at least 4 feet wide. Its skin was a mottled black color that was flecked with grey and purple, and it looked at the same time fluid yet firm. Bands of primal-looking muscle ran underneath the length of its slick body like those of a snakes. A ridge of bony spines ran along its back all along its legnth. It reminded him somewhat unpleasantly of the marsh leeches he had seen in his travels through the Kumungu Jungles – and personally, he thought that it was little better than one of those leeches. Its mouth was gaping and he could see rows and rows of long and needle-sharp teeth. It had no eyes, but he knew all too well that it could sense its prey just as well as a shark could smell a drop of blood in the water. It gave off a stench of rotting flesh and another, sharper and more acrid smell that seemed to follow the usage of any form of black magic: the scent of the various plants that had been burned during the rituals involved in black magic. The Blackwyrm was equally fearsome-looking and disgusting – a mixture of traits that were not pleasant on their own and even less so combined.

It was also very, _very_ much dead.

Lucian could see several large silver bolts jutting out of its body in a way that reminded him of a pincushion. _They _were what had pinned it to the wall of the somehow still-standing building behind him and they were also what were keeping it up. He knew little about weapons other than his own, but he knew enough to realize that whatever shot those bolts was not a normal crossbow. It had clearly been modified to carry larger ammunition that was also more specialized in nature.

One of the silver bolts had come loose and fallen as the Blackwyrm had decomposed, and it was this falling bolt that had made the sound that had caught his attention. He could see it on the ground before the Blackwyrm and he walked carefully over the devastation to get to it. Placing his guns in their holsters on his back, he crouched down and looked at the long bolt.

It was a dull gun-metal colored bolt that had been somewhat corroded from the acidic flesh of the Blackwyrm. The shaft was made of a more common metal but the arrowhead was the purest moonsilver. He picked it up and found that it was surprisingly lighter to hold than he had expected. Any further investigation was halted as another bolt came loose and clattered to the ground. Looking up, Lucian saw that the rest of the Blackwyrm was also coming undone.

Stepping back quickly and picking up the bolt at the same time, he narrowly avoided being crushed as the body of the Blackwyrm landed heavily onto the ground. It uncoiled sickingly as it fell and made the earth shudder beneath his feet; some of the bolts that had kept it pinned to the side of the building that were still embedded in the stones of the wall fell as well from the impact. Lucian waited until he thought the wall was fully secure before he walked slowly back over to where the Blackwyrm lay.

Judging by the degree of decomposition, he figured that it could not have been dead for more than a day or two and at the most three. Its body was rotted in some places, but for the most part it was still intact. He could see the spots were the moonsilver bolts had burned holes in its flesh and they cut uneven holes in its skin. They had been shot with remarkable precision at the spots where the Blackwyrm was most vulnerable: several bolts had penetrated its softer underside while others had destroyed the sensory organs at the base of its head. The killing blow had come from the bolt that was embedded at the front of the head, in between where one would think the Blackwyrm's eyes would be.

Whoever it was that had killed it, it was obvious that they were very skilled. There were very few who could kill a Blackwyrm of this size and – from what he had gathered – even fewer who could do it alone as it had been done.

Lucian glanced back down at the silver bolt he had held in his hands. He twirled it slowly in his gloved fingers as he began to think. He knew of only one person who had both the skills necessary to kill a Blackwyrm and who used the particular weapons that had killed the Blackwyrm in front of him.

The Night Hunter.

It was a name that was whispered fearfully by all the cowardly souls who practiced the black magics on Valoran. The very name of the Night Hunter was often more than enough to discourage the practice of black magic and it had become an image in its own right. The Night Hunter was as much shrouded in mystery as the sorcerers it pursued, and it was this mystery that helped to add to the reputation. Lucian agreed that it was a fitting name, but sometimes he thought that the Night _Huntress_ might have been more fitting.

The Order of the Light had kept tabs on Shauna Vayne ever since she had first begun her exploits several years ago under the mantle of the Night Hunter. Or at least, they had _tried_ their very best to: she was notoriously hard to tail effectively and she was even harder to track down. On more than one occasion, she had confronted the unfortunate person tasked to tail her and sent them back to the Order with several broken bones and an even more injured pride.

Though he had yet to meet her in person, Lucian had a certain fondness for the Night Hunter; he could appreciate her devotion and thought that he could begin to understand her crusade against the black magics. Had it been anyone else who had taken up the task, he would have expected them to give up quickly or – more than likely – die in combat. But Shauna Vayne was an exceptional woman in her own right, and if there was anyone who could clean up the black magic in Valoran by themselves, it was her.

And now she had killed a Blackwyrm on her own. Lucian straightened with an almost amazed shake of his head. It seemed as though every extra story he heard about Vayne only added to his admiration for her.

Now that the mystery of who had killed the Blackwyrm had been solved, that only left one question: what was it doing here in the first place? It was obvious enough that one of the sorcerers in Wyverndale had summoned the Blackwyrm, but that did not begin to explain _why._ Blackwyrms were notoriously difficult to contain and control – as evidenced by the devastation surrounding him – and they were used only for the higher levels of black magic.

Blackwyrms could be harvested for their spinal fluid, and they were often summoned and kept alive for that particular reason. Blackwyrm spinal fluid could only be harvested after they had reached a particular size – a size which the dead one currently met – whether the Blackwyrm was alive or not. But Blackwyrm spinal fluid was a very uncommon ingredient due to the danger of summoning and maintaining one long enough for it to reach the proper size. It was not used for many rituals in the black magics, and those few where it was necessary required extreme skill.

None of this did anything to reassure Lucian.

A quick examination of the dead Blackwyrm told him that it had indeed been harvested, but he was uncertain whether it had been done before or _after_ death. For an instant and only an instant, he entertained the idea that it might have been Vayne who had harvested the spinal fluid. But it was more likely that the dead Blackwyrm could sing and dance than Shauna Vayne ever involving herself in anything even remotely close to the black magics.

But if it had not been her, he could only wonder at who it _had_ been. And at what they had been planning. He was willing to bet both his guns that it was not something that had the best intentions of the masses in mind.

Lucian knelt down to closer inspect the Blackwyrm, but it gave him no further clues about who it was that could have needed to summon such a dangerous creature. His curiosity satisfied at last, he stood up and prepared to leave. It would be several days of journey to get back to Demacia, especially since he would have to avoid causing a scene in the middle of Noxus. He would have to move quickly.

It was the middle of October, and the autumn chill was beginning to set into his bones. He was cold underneath his clothes and the air bit at his skin. Wherever he went on Valoran, it felt as though there was an unnatural fog hanging over towns and villages, and he knew why.

The Harrowing was approaching.

He had already been called back to Demacia by the Order, and he was at the moment very late to the meeting. He had never been one for bureaucracy, and he had already missed several past meetings for various reasons. Tensions had been high between him and the Order ever since Senna's death because of his choice to work alone and the Order's insistence that he work with a partner.

They did not seem to understand that he could never work with anyone else ever again.

* * *

><p>Many miles away in the very heart of Noxus, the ravens were just beginning to take flight. They circled above the dark city, their shrill cries echoing throughout the streets. They swarmed around the Noxus High Command, cawing and beating their wings as their shadows danced across the night sky.<p>

A figure stood on the highest balcony of the Noxus High Command, leaning on a cane and watching the birds with unblinking red eyes.

Jericho Swain watched the cloud of birds as it passed before the moon, and his eyes followed their progress with a deliberate slowness. There was a bird of his own perched on his shoulder, and she was eying the other birds with disdain. Beatrice ruffled her feathers and cawed quietly, her 6 red eyes darting around to the dark corners of the balcony.

"I trust you have good news for me," said Swain to the open air, his voice like nails scraping across stone. He did not turn around to look at the figure that stepped out of the shadows that the flying birds had cast.

His name was Cluney and he was an assassin of Noxus. He was thin and covered with a black cloak that fluttered like crow feathers even without the aid of the wind. He was pale and he had a thin face that was as equally devoid of any emotion as that of Swain's. He had red eyes that burned in the darkness of the night like the embers of forgotten fires as he glanced around cautiously. Long, black hair fell around his face in a dark mass and he flicked his head to get it out of his face. He stepped forward, and his cloak shifted to reveal several long knives strapped to his waist.

"Wyverndale is a graveyard," he said flatly, and his voice was as cold as the blades of his knives. "The sorcerers we employed lost control of the Blackwyrm. No survivors."

Swain's face betrayed no sign of sadness or remorse as he continued looking forward. "Pity," he said emotionlessly and in a tone that implied anything but. "And the spinal fluid?"

Swain turned around as Cluney removed a small bottle from within the confines of his cloak. It was filled with a viscous and thick-looking fluid that was a sickly pale purple color. What could have happiness danced in Swain's eyes for an instant.

"I trust there were no _other_ complications, then?" he asked as he took the bottle. He lifted it to the moonlight and swirled it before his eyes. He seemed satisfied and he held the bottle in his hand.

A corner of Cluney's mouth twitched in what could have been a half-scowl or perhaps a half-smile. "The Night Hunter was there. She was the one who killed the Blackwyrm. Did my job for me."

Swain paused and Beatrice clacked her beak restlessly. "Did she see you?"

"Not my face." He lifted his cloak and revealed a shoulder that had been hastily wrapped in bloody bandages. "But she got me with one of her damned bolts. I managed to get away before she could hit anything else."

"Don't be so careless next time," growled Swain as the bottle disappeared into his cloak. "We cannot risk her finding out what we have planned."

"Don't worry," snarled Cluney as he let his cloak fall over his shoulder. There was a dangerous glint in his red eyes and his teeth were bared in the night.

"I won't be."


	3. Chapter 3

The Night Hunter:

Vayne thought she knew better than to be careless in Noxus.

Her line of work had brought her to the dark streets of the wretched city on many more occasions than she would even like to count, and she made doubly sure to be careful every single time she came. As both an agent of justice against the black magics _and _a Demacian, she knew that she was less than welcome within the realm of Noxus or its allies. She had seen her wanted poster on the walls of more than one Noxian and Zaunite tavern – though thankfully, she had never seen a decent enough rendition of her to accurately identify her; she made regular usage of disguises when she travelled, and they had helped her maintain some much-needed anonymity thus far.

That was not to say that she had _total_ freedom wherever she went on Valoran; she still faced some modicums of difficulty here or there as she snuck through the various methods her enemies had in place dissuade any potential invaders. But try as they might, not Noxus nor Zaun nor anything else could keep her out for very long. No one was going to stop her from fulfilling her crusade against the black magics. Justice would not be halted and so, neither would she.

At the current moment, she was posing as a grieving widow as she walked through the streets of Noxus. The black veil that obscured her face provided her decent coverage from prying eyes, and she had almost free reign to look out from beneath its lace at the passerby without being noticed. It was early in the morning in Noxus, and a pale haze seemed to hang over the entire city to obscure one's vision. Those few who were walking the street were nothing more than shadowy shapes moving about in the gloom.

Her dark eyes darted around quickly like flitting bats, and she was careful to watch where she walked. _Anyone_ could be a target in Noxus – even a seemingly unarmed woman in apparent mourning. The lawlessness of Noxus disgusted her sometimes, and she remembered how she had fought off attackers on more than one occasion while walking the dark streets.

She wore a long black dress – she was very partial to the color, after all – that hid the crossbow attached to her hip and added to the narrative that she was just a widow grieving for her lost husband. She dabbed ceremoniously at her eyes with the white handkerchief she held in her right fist and gave a couple muffled sobs for good measure. Some of the other Noxians gave her slightly disdainful glares, but no one said anything to her. She knew that they saw crying as a display of weakness, but _she_ was no Noxian with thickheaded notions of strength; feigning tears was still an excellent way to maintain her cover and so she did.

Beneath the many layers of her dress, her right thigh and her left arm throbbed sharply from long, angry cuts that had been hastily bandaged not too long ago. Though she had stitched herself, they were uneven and poorly done, and they stung every time she moved. The dried blood was stuck to her dress, and her scabs would crack anew with each step. She grit her teeth against the pain that came with every step and forced herself to maintain an even stride. If she were to break character in the middle of Noxus, cuts on her arms and legs would be the very _least_ of her worries.

_Maintain the illusion,_ she thought to herself, repeating it over and over to herself like a mantra. She tried to focus on the words rather than the sharp pain in her arm and her leg as best she could, using them as a distraction from the haze of anguish. It was a technique she had learned long ago to dull pain, and it had worked many times before.

Breathing as deeply as she could through teeth clenched shut in pain, she focused on the words. She focused on their sound – letting it wash over her and deafen the pain with their dull roar. She imagined a pinprick in the very top of her skull, infinitely small and containing all the pain that coursed through her wounds. Then she imagined the words again, and she let them wash over the pain and carry it away.

Slowly, the pain in her limbs began to fade away bit-by-bit until it became manageable. It was still there, but she had forced it to move to the recesses of her mind, where the dull ache was not quite so all-encompassing. Vayne allowed herself a moment of smugness as she pondered her small victory.

But then a far more noticeable scowl hardened the features beneath the veil as she thought back to what had happened in Wyverndale to cause the wounds. It was perhaps her worst failure since beginning her crusade as the Night Hunter. Admittedly, she had not been as prepared as she would have liked to have been – the wounds on her arm and her leg were testament to _that_. Though she had been prepared to deal with a rogue Blackwyrm, she had not been expected to face off against what she _assumed_ had been a Noxian assassin.

Her left hand – the one hidden out of sight under her dress and not holding the handkerchief – curled into a tight fist. There was a small scrap of a dark cloak held securely in her palm that she had taken from the as-of-right-now nameless assassin. It had been tore off by one of her silver bolts as she had confronted him back in Wyverndale. The bolt had been buried into one of the fallen walls of the destroyed town, and the small scrap of cloak had been pinned beneath. Vayne had been glad to find _another_ one of her silver bolts, this one darkened by blood from the mystery assassin. She was not the only one who had been injured in their scuffle, it seemed.

Though she had not quite just yet examined it as well as she would have liked, she had stolen several glances at the scrap of cloth over the course of the day. When she returned to Demacia, she would have the time and the resources to more thoroughly examine it, but for now all she had were her eyes and her knowledge.

But even the brief, cursory glances she had managed to sneak at it had revealed some valuable information: the material that had been used to make the cloak was definitely not normal cloth; at the very least, she could tell that it had been infused with black magics so that it hid the wearer in the darkness and lightened their footsteps. She wagered that it had other, more sinister properties as well, but she would have to wait until she arrived back in Demacia before she could be entirely sure. It would be some time before she figured out the rest but she was certain she would.

Unwillingly, her thoughts wandered back to the Noxian assassin, and the cuts on her arm and her leg gave a sharp throb of pain as her careful concentration broke momentarily at the thought of him. He had been far more skilled than she had expected him to be, but that did not mean that she could use that as an excuse to forgive herself for letting him get away. She had been careless, and that was the end of it. He may have been more skilled than she had initially given him credit for, but she had faced far greater enemies before than a single Noxian assassin.

She had already memorized his appearance – the long black hair, the hateful red eyes that burned like coals, and _especially_ the long knives that he had used to cut her – and he could rest assured that come next week, she would know every single thing there was to know about him.

Vayne looked up as she finally arrived at the dingy tavern she had been staying in. The wooden door creaked loudly as she pushed it open with one hand. In the early light of the morning, the pub on the first floor was almost completely empty. There were one or two unhappy souls drinking away the morning gloom at the bar, but they paid her no mind and she did the same.

She walked to her room, casting off the black veil that covered her face even before the door had closed completely. Moving as swiftly as she could on injured legs, she changed carefully out of her dress and prepared more appropriate travelling clothes. She hissed slightly in pain as she changed into a pair of heavy pants and pulled her shirt up over her head. There was another cut in addition to the first two, this one stretching across the skin just beneath the left side of her ribs almost to the middle of her abdomen. It was just as fresh as the others, and she raised her hand hesitantly to gingerly brush the tips of her fingers against the raw skin.

They came away bloody and she scowled as she wiped the blood roughly off on her pants. She was clad now only in a dark bra and pants, and her skin was almost luminous in the dim light. There were numerous other faded scars all across her body but they were almost invisible against her pale skin. Small and large scars alike crisscrossed all across her body like spider-webs. Her dark hair fell freely down her back, the color a stark contrast against the skin of her shoulders.

Vayne gave herself a quick look-over in the small mirror on the bedside table before she nodded with a snort of apparent satisfaction. There were no other pressing wounds besides the three, and she knew that soon she would be able to get them treated. She tied new bandages around her arm, leg, and over her chest before she pulled on a clean white shirt and pulled the cloak over that as well.

Squatting slowly, she reached underneath the bed and pulled a long black box out from where it had been hidden. She did not even bother opening the clasps along the side as she lifted it easily onto the bed; she could tell from the weight alone that her massive crossbow was still inside. Her injured arm and leg screamed with protest as she straightened with the box, but she ignored the pain. She strapped her smaller, arm-mounted crossbow back onto her forearm, pulling her cloak sleeve over it to make sure it was hidden. Pulling her trademark red glasses out from within one of her pockets, she put them over her eyes and tucked her hood over her head.

Vayne looked over the room one last time to make sure that she had left absolutely no evidence of her stay behind before she gathered her things and walked out the door.

And like the evening darkness vanishing in the morning sunrise, the Night Hunter was gone.

* * *

><p>The journey back to Demacia was uneventful and subdued even for Demacia. She ran into no obstacles in trying to get out of Noxus, and she managed to board the train with ease. She would have to transfer between trains, but that was no trouble. The calm was almost welcome, but Vayne did not permit herself to drop her guard for an instant. She had already learned her lesson in Wyverndale and she was not about to let that happen again.<p>

It was late at night the next day when she finally stepped off of the train at Demacia's Grand Royal Station. The moon was hidden by the clouds overhead and the few passengers left on the train shuffled out without a word. Vayne was among them, this time posing as an elderly woman returning home. Some of the station attendants kindly offered to help her, but she assured them that she had it under control.

Her car was waiting for her where she had left it in the station parking lot before embarking for Noxus. Though the grand majority of Demacia had stubbornly refused to relinquish their fondness for horse-drawn carriages and the like, Vayne had wasted no time in embracing the future; she had imported a Piltoverian Hexcar the moment they had become available for widespread sale, and she had adopted the technology ever since.

Hers was long and sleek, painted an elegant black that shimmered in the moonlight like oil. The make and model had been recommended to her by her good friend Caitlyn – the Sheriff of Piltover herself – and begrudgingly, Vayne was forced to admit that she did have good taste. The interior of the Hexcar was equally as elegant as the exterior, and the seats were made from the finest leather. It had cost her a pretty penny, but Vayne had been careful to maintain her family's fortune. There would be no shortage of funds in the Vayne family for many years to come. She had made sure of that.

The Hexcar growled like a panther as Vayne turned on the ignition, and it rumbled as though it were ready to pounce. The subtle growl changed to a low animalistic purr as Vayne let her foot press the accelerator and she smiled slightly at the sound. There were very few things that Vayne could truthfully say she liked.

Her car was one of them.

The sleek black machine tore like a wraith through the streets of Demacia, weaving around the few other Hexcars and carriages still on the streets like it was nothing more than their shadows come to life. Slowly, she made her way out of the city and into the outskirts of Demacia, where many of the manors of the more important families were found.

Vayne had several other places to stay – a penthouse in Piltover, a townhouse in the very center of Demacia, and a cottage in Ionia to name a few – but she still preferred the relative solitude of her childhood home. Truthfully, she did not know why she did.

The place was filled with many memories – some being the few happy memories of her childhood, but most too unspeakably terrible for her to ever forget them. Sometimes when she walked the cold and empty halls of the manor, she thought she could still hear the screams of her family. But for some reason, she had not been able to bring herself to sell it.

It was far later into the night – almost into the morning – before she finally arrived at the outer boundaries of the grounds. Vayne Manor was hidden deep in the forests that surrounded the outskirts of Demacia, and it was the very devil to try and find if you did not already know where it was. But she knew the path well, and soon she had located the large iron gates that marked the entrance to her home.

Massive stone pillars rose on both sides of the black iron gates gate, and they were topped with black stone ravens that had their beaks open and wings raised menacingly. Their stone eyes seemed to follow her as she approached. The plaque on the center of the gates was marked "Ravenscry," and her own dark eyes hardened with unreadable emotion as she read it. The gates opened slowly as she neared, and she eased the Hexcar through them.

The path to Ravenscry cut through the trees, and the tires of the Hexcar rumbled against the cobblestone road. The powerful headlights of the Hexcar illuminated the road ahead, and Vayne saw several small animals scurry out of the way. It was some time before the forest finally broke to reveal the grounds of the manor.

Ravenscry was bathed in the moonlight, and it loomed out of the darkness at her like a bad dream. The mansion was large – among one of the largest in Demacia – and it was intimidatingly impressive. It was grand and gothic, with pointed rooftops lined with dark tiles. The walls were a dull grey even when it was not dark, and the grounds were surrounded with intricate hedges cut into fearsome shapes of birds of prey.

It had five floors and more rooms than Vayne and her brother Anton had ever managed to count in their childhood. In the dark of the night, the only thing that she could see of the stone gargoyles mounted all across the roof were their silhouettes. But their image had been burned into her mind, and she could imagine them clearly from memory alone. The numerous windows set along the walls of Ravenscry were dark from within.

As she knew they always would be.

Vayne maneuvered the Hexcar up the winding path that led to the front of the mansion. She did not park in front of the front door, choosing instead to drive to where the garage was along the side of the mansion. It opened with the press of a control that she had hidden in the glove compartment, and the automatic door closed behind her. With the light of the Hexcar headlights, she could make out the shapes of the several other cars and carriages that were stored in the garage.

The engine shut off and Vayne stepped out, taking care to be careful with her injured arm and leg. Limping slightly, she passed out of the garage and into the mansion.

Ravenscry was deathly quiet on the inside, and the hallways were pitch black. She knew that the all the maids had long since fallen asleep, and there was no other soul awake besides her. Vayne fumbled along the wall for the light switch, narrowing her eyes slightly when the lights turned on. Her heels made a loud clicking noise that echoed in the empty hallways. She did not even bother heading for the second floor where her bedroom was, angling herself instead towards the direction of the kitchen.

The kitchen was just as quiet and empty as the rest of the mansion, and it sounded eerily hollow as she walked over the stone tiles. The lights were thankfully dimmer than the rest of the house, and they did not hurt her eyes as much when she turned them on. She strode over to the walk-in pantry, pulling a body of brandy down from the shelves without even bothering to look at the label. She held her injured arm close to her body and winced as it moved.

For a moment, she debated getting a glass from one of the cabinets and taking it with her. But she decided against it, instead simply tearing off the wrapping with an almost angry tug. Her fingers were cold and stiff as she fumbled with the cork, unable to remove it. She gave an irritated snarl before she finally gave up and simply pulled out the cork with her teeth, spitting it out onto the floor. The cork had barely even touched the floor before she had already raised the bottle to her lips and taken a long drag.

As she lifted the bottle into the light, she caught a glance of the bottle's label: Black Crow Brandy. It had been her father's favorite and it burned her throat as it went down. She lowered the bottle and swallowed another draught of alcohol, feeling the heat as it passed down through her chest and into her stomach. There it settled like liquid fire, and she could feel the numbness beginning to spread. It spread like a prickling warmth that tingled where it went.

_Good brandy_, she thought to herself as she drank again. _Father always did have good taste._

There was a slightly rueful smile on her lips as she stumbled out of the kitchen and into the parlor. There was a fireplace but she did not even bother lighting it, instead simply collapsing into one of the large armchairs that were situated before the cold fireplace.

She took another long drink from the bottle, glad that it was numbing her mind as much as her pain. She hated coming to Ravenscry, but she always found herself drawn back to it again and again. It was like a bad lover that she could not help but continue to fall for. She did not know how long she sat there, alternating between drinking from the bottle and staring into the empty fireplace, imagining she could see the flickering fires beyond.

Soon, she began to feel tired from the brandy and she could feel a pleasant tingling in all of her extremities. She looked down at the bottle, and she was a little surprised to find it empty. She did not know she had drank it all. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of getting another bottle from the pantry, but she doubted she would make it back from the kitchen if she did. The empty bottle clattered to the floor and it cracked slightly as she let it fall out of her hands.

It was somewhat cold inside the parlor, and she pulled her legs up against her chest to warm herself. She did not even bother taking off her heels. The chair was soft, but she tried to get a little more comfortable and she turned so she lay on her side. Her leg screamed in protest as she did, but she hardly felt it through the haze of numbness the brandy had lowered. She pulled her cloak around her chest to cover herself as best she could and she closed her eyes.

And then Shauna Vayne slept, alone and cold in the house where her family had died.


End file.
